


Not Even the Rain

by Seldarius



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 02:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18907651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seldarius/pseuds/Seldarius
Summary: A storm keeps Jack from returning home. Or does it? Absolute fluff.





	Not Even the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> My dear friend Jolanda asked me for a short & sweet Phrack story (set in the Phryniverse) for her birthday and agreed to share it here. So, a bit of fluff in her honour. Enjoy.
> 
> (Thanks go to Preux and Scruggzi for help with the title.)

Heavy raindrops drummed against the glass. Phryne took another turn through the parlour, pretending that she wasn’t staring out the window. Where was he?!

Jack had telephoned an hour ago, telling her that he would get on his way in just a minute, hoping to be home before the storm. He certainly hadn’t managed that.

Another crash of thunder drew her back to the window. The threatening purple-grey clouds were slowly dipping into inky darkness as night fell. Phryne could hear her blood rushing in her ears.

“Mr Butler?” she called. The servant appeared in the door frame before she had finished his name.

“Ma’am?”

“Can you please try the station again to see if the phone line has been restored?” Phryne asked.

The butler opened his mouth to protest that surely nothing could be fixed while the thunderstorm was still raging outside, but with a single look at her face he reconsidered, turning his step to the hall. When he returned with no news a minute later, his mistress had returned to pacing the parlour like a caged tigress.

“He probably got caught at the station, Ma’am and is waiting out the storm.”

“You are probably right,” she said, but didn’t look reassured at all.

A strike of lightning tore the sky apart, dipping the parlour into bright light. Phryne flinched.

“Is Jane still with Dot, Mr B?”

“They are having cocoa and pouring over a filmstar magazine, Ma’am.”

“Please make sure they stay safe,” Miss Fisher said, already halfway to the hallway.

The lights flickered.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Ma’am?” her servant asked while she fished for her coat.

Phryne turned, looked at the worried lines stretching across his face. Then she shrugged helplessly.

“Absolutely not, but I refuse to just sit here and wait.”

That very moment a heavy knock rang at the door. The two people in the hallway shared a look, then they simultaneously rushed to open. Mr Butler was a moment quicker.

At the doorstep stood a darkly clad figure, the hat deep in his eyes, the collar turned up. Behind him, thunder clapped against the steady rush of rain.

“Jack?” Phryne exclaimed, pulling the drenched inspector into the house, then retreated as water seeped through her thin blouse.

“I’m afraid I’ve got a little wet,” Jack protested. “I apologize for the mess I am sure to leave on the floors, Mr Butler.”

“No problem at all, sir. Welcome home.”

“Could you please fetch some towel--” Phryne began to ask, finally feeling back in charge of the situation. She cut herself off when she realised that Mr B had already disappeared and instead peeled the drenched overcoat from an overwhelmed Jack’s shoulders. There were no words to express the depths of her relief and so she didn’t attempt to.

“Heavens, you are soaked. Did you walk?” she joked as she hung his hat.

“I’m afraid so, Miss Fisher.”

She turned, shocked, and found him smiling at her. While she still searched for a reply, Mr Butler reemerged with a stack of towels and dry clothing.

“I have lit the fire in your bedroom, ma’am, but it is still rather cool upstairs. May I recommend the parlour for the time being?”

“An excellent idea, Mr B,” Phryne said, beginning to rub down Jack’s hair under his faint protest.

Mr Butler left again, doubtlessly to find more ways to make himself useful and Jack, after pointedly ridding himself of both, Phryne’s attention and his shoes, made his way into the parlour, careful not to leave water stains on the expensive furniture. In front of the roaring fire he turned to see his wife close the doors behind them.

“Tell me what happened?” she asked, with quick steps making her way across the room. Jack dropped his eyes down to where his hands were attempting to undo the wet wool of his tie.

“Little to say, Phryne. I was delayed at the station, then the motorcar wouldn’t start, and the trams turned out to be out of commission due to the thunderstorm.”

“So you decided to walk of all things?” Phryne asked, helping him absent-mindedly with the tie. She realised a moment too late how shrill her voice had turned and touched his cheek to soften her reaction. He looked up at her, a small smile crinkling the skin around his eyes.

“So I did.”

“That was rather silly of you. It would’ve been much safer to return to the station until the storm had passed.”

“True,” Jack tilted his head slightly to rest his cheek against her palm, “but I could simply not wait that long to be home.” He turned his face and brushed a kiss to her wrist. “And I knew you would be going out of your mind, more so every minute I didn’t show my face.”

Phryne considered to protest this notion, but decided that an outright lie might be a little rude and instead changed the subject.

“We’d better get you out of those wet clothes before you catch yourself cold,” she decided, already unbuttoning his waistcoat with talented fingers. Jack swallowed dryly, but allowed her to peel the shirttails from his trousers, slipping her fingers underneath the damp fabric sticking to his chest. His skin was freezing underneath her warm palms.

“You must be cold.”

She aimed innocent eyes up at him, noted his having gone dark with desire. Clearing his throat, Jack removed herself from him.

“I am. And while I cherish your help, I do not wish to be caught with my trousers down by Mr Butler,” he stated, making quick work of the shirt buttons. “Or worse, Jane.”

“I’m afraid our daughter is currently busy being sucked into the false glamours of Hollywood,” Phryne said, sitting on the love seat and watching him with hungry eyes as he hurriedly changed into his pyjamas.

“Is she off to become an actress then?” he asked while stepping into a pair of slippers.

“I rather hope not,” Phryne smiled and stretched out her hand to him.

He obediently sank down beside her, still tying the belt of his house coat. Her smile broadened. Seeing Jack in anything but his full three piece suite outside either of their bedrooms was a rare occurrence and her fingers slipped lazily over the dark silk.

“Better?” she asked. He nodded.

“I’m warming up quickly, Miss Fisher,” he said, without taking his eyes off her. His breath was brushing over her cheeks.

“I’m exceedingly glad to hear it.”

She grinned, her hand slipping lower. Jack squinted at her with a faint warning but didn’t stop her roaming fingers. Through the thin fabric she could already sense his body responding to her touch. A gentle knock tore their attention from her doing.

“Come,” Phryne called, smoothly rising to her feet while Jack’s pale cheeks flushed a gentle shade of pink. Mr Butler entered with a tray.

“I’ve taken the liberty to prepare some hot toddy, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Butler,” Jack brought out, his voice suspiciously hoarse. His wife accepted the offered tray and wished Mr Butler a good night in a less than subtle gesture. The servant withdrew discreetly.

While she poured the second cup, Jack was already bringing the hot beverage to his lips. As he swallowed he blinked in surprise.

“Mr Butler certainly meant well,” he pointed out carefully.

Phryne took a sip herself. He was right. Mingling between the usual suspects of lemon, honey and spice there was the unmistakable edge of whisky.

“At least 40 percent well in my estimation.”

“I am not complaining,” Jack answered between sips. She noted that he had already drained a third of his drink. For a while they sat in companionable silence. The rain outside had smoothed into a steady hum, only occasionally interrupted by the wind roaring through the trees, throwing thick drops against the window. Phryne watched Jack’s profile in the flickering light of the flames. Some colour had returned to his features, whatever Mr B had mixed into his drink was working. Something occurred to her.

“What was it that kept you at the station then?” she asked.

He hummed, as if unwilling to return his thoughts to the long day lying behind him.

“The coroner’s report for Mr Winchester arrived just as I was about to take my hat,” he explained, draining his cup and stretching it out for her to refill.

“Poison?” she asked, when he wasn’t forthcoming with any further information.

“Arsenic,” he explained, “just as you thought.”

“So that makes his wife our main suspect then,” Phryne said.

“Or the maid,” Jack said, stifling a cough. “Turns out she went a little above and beyond on her duties.”

Phryne measured him with a hint of worry.

“You aren’t getting sick on me, are you, Jack?” she asked, her hand slipping onto his forehead. “You are quite warm.”

“That might be somewhat connected to the whisky,” he grinned faintly. “And the fire.”

He turned to look at her. “And likely also to your proximity, Miss Fisher.”

“Is it now?”

Phryne smiled and drew him close. Their lips met in a sweet, whisky flavoured kiss, her hand slipping back onto his thigh. As it trailed higher, he firmly grasped her wrist.

“Not here,” he reminded her in a hoarse whisper. “Anyone could come in.”

Phryne’s lips pulled into a pout, but she retreated.

“I might just see how the fire in my bedroom is developing,” she announced as she rose. “An early night might be in order.”

He smiled in as she sashayed to the door and slipped through with a wink in his direction. She’d reached the stairs when she heard a pair of feet pattering down the steps.

“I was looking for you,” Jane declared as she approached. “Dot said Jack was unwell?”

“He’s just made his way home through the rain,” Phryne calmed her, taking her relieved daughter by the shoulders and leading her back upstairs. “A good night’s sleep will fix him right up.”

She was still shaking her head about how fast news spread through her house when she’d ushered Jane into her own room and listened to her for a quarter of an hour chattering about her evening with Dot. Apparently little Thomas had had a hard time sleeping with all the noise outside and Hugh had gotten stuck at the station, being considerably more sensible than his superior.

Once they had exhausted all new developments in their neighbour’s house, she finally bid her daughter goodnight and entered her own bedroom. Cosy warmth greeted her, the sheets already invitingly turned down. Phryne’s limbs felt suddenly rather heavy, doubtlessly a side effect of too much worry mixed with warm alcohol. Climbing between the warm layers seemed a heavenly idea. Carefully she closed the door again, heading back downstairs.

“Good news, Jack, the bed is wai-” She cut herself off. On the sofa, dipped in the soft, flickering light lay her inspector lost in peaceful dreams, an open book still resting on his chest. She approached on tip-toes, thoughtfully measured his relaxed features. As much as she wanted to take him to bed, waking him appeared rather uncivil. He had worked long days of late and the reckless walk home couldn’t have possibly be pleasant.

After a moment’s thought she carefully retrieved the novel from his chest. Jack sighed in his sleep, bringing a smile to her lips. Quietly she unfolded a blanket and spread it over his resting frame before retreating to an armchair. As Phryne sat and flicked the book back to the beginning, the rain’s gentle hum mixed with Jack’s even breathing into a beautiful melody, keeping her company throughout the quiet evening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
